


Cyclical

by LemonNinjaa



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Anxiety, Character Study, Comfort, Moving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-10
Updated: 2017-05-10
Packaged: 2018-10-30 09:39:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10874115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LemonNinjaa/pseuds/LemonNinjaa
Summary: Life doesn't always add up neatly, but for Dan, no matter what the variables are, big life change = anxiety. At least Phil is a constant.





	Cyclical

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this before the first live show Dan did in the new London apartment, so the location of the piano is off, but I was hesitant to rewrite it and disrupt the flow.

Dan wakes up and it’s cold. The natural light that spills between the gaps in the curtains is bluish-white and too sterile for his liking. He almost doesn’t recognize the bedsheets, doesn’t know where his familiar black-and-grey duvet is, doesn’t know why things feel so disconnected. It’s like he’s woken up in a strange alternate universe where things are just different enough to be unsettled by.

He flips the strange covers off him, puts his bare feet on the floor that doesn’t feel right.  It’s too quiet; he doesn’t hear sirens or traffic or drilling or anything. He distantly knows that this is how things are supposed to be now, but he doesn’t know how to shake off the feeling that he’s accidentally gotten somewhere he wasn’t supposed to ever be.

He doesn’t even know what time it is. It feels like time has stopped, like he’s the only movement in the world. His steps don’t make a sound as he makes his way out of his room, but he stops for a second as soon as he clears the doorway, looking both ways at the clean, unmarked walls.

Dan suddenly finds himself looking out the window. It’s snowing outside, and perhaps that’s why things feel muffled. He puts his hand on the glass. He isn’t surprised that it’s cold. Outside, he can see people walking, but it’s as if the sight before him is a playback in slow motion.

His eyes zero in on a head of black hair, and his fingers twitch as if they want to reach out for something.

He’s looking for something now. He’s flitting through rooms but he barely moves at all, as if he’s sliding through gaps in time and physical space. There’s something missing.

There’s something missing.

There’s something missing and he doesn’t know what.

\--

Dan’s eyes snap open and he’s lying on his side and he’s looking at a room that’s so unfamiliar but seems too familiar at the same time. The natural light that spills between the gaps in the curtains is bluish-white and too sterile for his liking. He almost doesn’t recognize the bedsheets, doesn’t know where his familiar black-and-grey duvet is, doesn’t know why things feel so disconnected. It’s like he’s woken up in a strange alternate universe where things are just different enough to be unsettled by.

The realization hits him suddenly, and the part of him that’s coherent enough to react to things appropriately is instantly afraid. He’s afraid that if he gets up, if he puts his bare feet on the floor that doesn’t feel right, if he plays everything out the way it went the first time, that urgent feeling of missing something he can’t identify will return.

He stays in bed, eyes open, studying the ceiling that looks so much like the other but isn’t.

\--

He doesn’t know how long he lays there, mind whirring. His breathing seems too loud, filling the room.

\--

He’s on his side, staring at the boxes lined up against the wall. Some are still neatly closed, and some have their flaps opened haphazardly. They remind him why he’s there. He’s suddenly afraid now of what he’s done.

His hands shake even though it’s warm under the covers. He’s struck by the sudden urge to pack all the boxes up and go back, go back, go back. But he can’t. He knows that.

He sits up suddenly, turning himself to huddle under the blanket, as if curling up will protect him from the gravity of his decisions. He stares blankly down at the bedsheets.

He doesn’t regret what he’s done, but he does. He’s afraid to look around at the unfamiliar space around him. He knows that this room is his, that he made this choice and he’s happy with it, that he didn’t do this alone, he’s not alone. But there’s a difference between making the right choice and feeling right about the choice. He knows that they were planning this for months, he knew it was on the horizon, but now it feels as though the sunrise came too soon and now they’re – he’s – here. There’s this sinking feeling that he’s leapt headfirst into something that he can’t ever go back from, something he can never fix, even though he knows that there’s nothing to fix, that this is what they were meant to do. Moving forward can mean leaving something behind, something that you might not be quite ready to let go of just yet. He had so much time to come to terms with it before it happened. He thought he did already, but the way the walls seem to trap him makes him realize he hadn’t.

 Dan finally gets out of bed. He had intended to leave the room, but his eyes catch the bluish-white light kissing the perfect ivory of his new piano. He gently runs his finger over a key, studying the way the light slides over his finger, over the key, over his finger as he moves. It’s as if the tone of the light affects the temperature; the key is still cold on his skin.

His fingertips flit over other keys, the slick plastic feeling wrong as he thinks about the old piano that sat in his old room. It had never really worked the way he had wanted it to, but in hindsight perhaps that was fair; he never really ended up working the way his parents had wanted him to. Perhaps there was merit in the saying, “Birds of a feather flock together,” after all. Sometimes he wants to go back in time, but maybe that wouldn’t fix anything.

 He finally pads quietly towards the door, but doesn’t pause when he enters the hallway. He walks with one hand against the wall, feeling the smoothness of the plaster underneath his fingertips. It’s too smooth. It has none of the nicks and scratches that he’d gotten so used to. It’s ironic; he’d been adamant that this change was just their familiar things arranged in a new but similar place, that it was just upsizing, that it was something they desperately needed, and none of that was wrong, but he can’t deny that something about all of this makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

He goes down the stairs. There aren’t as many as part of him expected there to be.

At least here, he sees more familiar sights. The lights stand quiet sentry in the corners, the camera resting on the table with the tripod lying on the ground nearby. But there are still more boxes, and he stares at them. Sometimes he wishes he could fast forward, but he’s afraid of what he’d miss out on if he did.

He looks up at the ceiling here, not as high as the one he’s used to. His gaze sweeps around the partially-decorated room, stops to study the frosted glass that separates his new office from the new lounge/gaming video set-up they’re working on.

He feels like he’s stuck in an in-between. It doesn’t feel right.

 “Dan?”

Dan turns without saying anything, and suddenly he feels as though the walls are keeping him safe instead of keeping him in. He takes a deep breath and lets it out, feeling the tightness in his chest loosen a little.

“Are you okay?” Phil asks softly, his brows furrowed over his glasses.

Dan scans the room before settling his gaze on the vivid blue hoodie Phil is wearing. Instead of reminding him of the strange bluish-white light that keeps unsettling him, it seems more like it’s bouncing off the walls, somehow seeming warm even though the colour never usually is.

He tenses but quickly relaxes when Phil comes closer to rest a hand on his shoulder. It looks as though Phil is studying Dan’s face, sharp blue eyes undoubtedly cataloguing the dark circles underneath Dan’s eyes and the tight set of his jaw.

Phil hugs him then, a full-body experience that provides warmth Dan didn’t even know he was missing. The softness of Phil’s hoodie makes Dan imagine the bright colour seeping in through his skin, buoying his bones, and Dan settles his hands gingerly on Phil’s back, clenching the fabric in his fists as if the harder he presses, the easier it will be to let go of what plagues him. Even though he’s being squeezed tightly, he can breathe a little easier now.   

“It’s okay,” Phil says quietly. The rumble of his voice in his chest pressed up against Dan’s shakes off a little more of the heaviness that’s been cloaked around Dan. “This is how things are supposed to be. We thought about this for a long time, didn’t we? Nothing has changed except where we physically are.”

Dan’s chin is resting on Phil’s shoulder, and his eyes are wide open. He inhales the scent of clean laundry, marvels a little at the peace that spreads within him, and looks around the room again. It doesn’t look as imposing as it did before. Dan nods before turning his face into Phil’s neck.

“Thanks,” he mumbles, letting go of Phil’s hoodie and resting his palms against Phil’s back.

He breathes in deeply, letting his eyes slip shut. It’s true that it feels as though nothing has changed at all when his eyes are closed, like they’re back in the old apartment, or the back of the bus on the way to the next city, or Manchester, or Phil’s parents’ old house. Nothing has changed except where they physically are and how they’ve grown up over time.

Sometimes he wants to go back in time, but maybe that wouldn’t fix anything. Sometimes he wishes he could fast forward, but he’s afraid of what he’d miss out on if he did. But sometimes, he’s content with being right where he is.  


End file.
